Jim slowly scrawled his name across the back of a new note. David got up and crossed the office, fixing his eyes—which saw not—on a flashlight photograph of the last bankers' association banquet. He cleared his throat vigorously.
"It's worse than that. Jim—" He paused.
"Yes?"
"Jim, you don't happen to know any one with a job—living salary attached—concealed about his person, do you?"
"What!"
Jim whirled around in his swivel chair and stared hard at David's back.
David continued his regard of the bankers' association banquet. "This
is you in the corner, isn't it?— Because, if you know of any such job
I'd be glad to take it over."
"In your own line, of course?"
"In any line. Preferably not in my line."
"But—good lord, man! You're not losing your nerve, are you—just because business has slumped a little? What about your profession?"
"As to that," David cleared his throat again, "as to that, I think we may say—safely—I haven't made good."